Grave
by Sarcasmcat
Summary: Someone reflects on a lost lover. Slash.


Disclaimer: I don't own Magnificent Seven.

A/n: Just another short story. Enjoy.

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He dismounted near the edge of the clearing and dropped the reins, not worrying about his mount wandering off. He wouldn't be gone that long and the horse was well trained.

Shrugging his coat off he draped it over the saddle, taking a moment to gather his thoughts before doing what had to be done.

He had come out to the land several times over the last three years, not nearly as many times as his lover, but guilt drove them both all the same.

As he passed the burned out house he swore he could still smell burned wood overlaying the faint sickly stench of charred flesh.

The last time he had been out had been shortly after the whole screwed up incident with Cletus Fowler. They had sent the other five back to Four Corners, doing their best to reassure them that they would be okay and that they would be returning to town in a couple of days.

They had all nodded, keeping the condolences to a minimum for which he was glad. There had been enough of that when it had happened and he didn't want to hear it again.

The trees at the edge of the clearing had provided shelter against the weather and they hadn't felt the need to set up any kind of watch. To most of the people in the area the burned out ranch was seemingly haunted and many people gave it wide berth.

After collecting wood for a fire they had settled down next to each other, their bedrolls overlapping. He had pulled a bottle of decent whisky out of his saddlebags and they had shared it and a cheroot, not speaking, knowing words weren't needed.

When they had finally gone to sleep it had been facing each other, hands twined together, the only part of them touching, but it had been enough.

The next day they'd made love and talked until they were both hoarse, something that wasn't easy but had to be done. It had been exhausting and they had slept twined together, blankets pulled tight.

Things weren't perfect, wouldn't be until they found out who had hired Fowler, but they were better and that was all that mattered.

The ride back to town had been comfortable and silent, their relationship on a more even keel than it had ever been.

Two weeks later his life had been shattered again, irreparably, no one to put him back together this time.

Hands curling around the worn fence posts he closed his eyes, not wanting to see what was there.

It had all been caused by a trick he had thought of plenty of times, had expected someone else to think of. And when a group of attempted bank robbers had finally managed to scrape the collective intelligence together to come up with it themselves, it had cost him the rest of his soul.

The newest set of bank robbers had decided to try at dawn, when they figured the chance of reprisal was low because few people would actually be to witness anything. However, they hadn't counted on Vin being awake and the fact the seven had worked out a system by which everyone could be alerted to danger before the shooting started.

There had been eight of them, all dirty and full of themselves. The fight had been short, leaving the would be bandits dead on the streets and boardwalks, the seven unscathed.

He had been moving to join his lover when he had caught movement at the end of an alley. There was no time for a warning as the sound of a last shot echoed through the returned morning stillness.

Time seemed to slow as his lover's body was jolted by the impact. A red blossom across the dark shirt, long body dropping to the ground.

Heedless of the danger he had run to his lover, knowing the others would deal with the assassin. Dropping to his knees he had pressed one hand against the wound, his other scrabbling madly to find the strong pulse of the heart he was attuned too.

He could find no flutter of life beneath his fingers and he felt numbness envelope him. Ignoring Nathan as the healer came closer he brushed his fingers over still warm skin, along jaw and chin, thumb brushing over parted lips, over cheek and nose, not caring that the others were watching.

All that mattered was gone, leaving him suddenly like three years ago. Without a chance to say good-bye, without a chance to say how much he was loved. They hadn't even spent the night together because he had pulled the late watch. Their last moment together had been a stolen in the alley beside the saloon, a languid kiss to reaffirm their feelings without words.

He didn't need Nathan to tell him his lover was dead. He had known it even before he had fallen to his knees, known that beautiful, vibrant spirit had already departed. Was with Adam and Sarah, finally together and happy.

No one had been able to understand why he had wanted to bury his lover out at the destroyed ranch. Ezra's eyes had met his and he could see the other man understood his need, had seen the truth. It had been Ezra who had convinced the others he was right, Ezra who had offered to help.

He had dug the grave alone, but with five there in support instead of one. Once the plain pine box had been tucked into its earthen womb he had been the one to cover, needing to do it alone as the final goodbye he hadn't gotten to say.

They had worked together to increase the size of the size of the little graveyard fence, working long into the night with the help of lanterns they had brought. No one slept that night. They had built a fire further away and passed around a bottle of whisky, silence shrouding them.

Opening his eyes he finally looked at what he had been trying to avoid, hands clenching tight on the fence.

Three crosses with names written in black. Two weathered and beaten with three years worth of exposure to the elements. The other, bright and clean, so incongruous with its surroundings.

Three graves, filled with the earthly remains of the people he had loved most in his life. Two grown over with grass and flowers that had seeded there over the years. One, fresh, the dirt dark and still mounded, no hint of green life.

Three names, the dearest names to his heart, the ones he recited to himself before he fell asleep each night, a way to remember them because he had nothing else.

Feeling the edges of the rough wood bite into his hands he dropped them to his side, head tilting forward. When he spoke, his voice was a low rasp, barely heard over the soft wind.

"I love you."

He made his way to his horse and mounted, not looking back.

Three names, that meant the world to him.

Sarah Larabee.

Adam Larabee.

Buck Wilmington.


End file.
